


when thou return'st

by silverscream



Category: All Souls Trilogy - Deborah Harkness
Genre: Alcohol, Brandy - Freeform, Comfort, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Spies, Wishful thinking about autumn and storms, all that good stuff, politicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverscream/pseuds/silverscream
Summary: cabins lost in the dead of night, after a long day on the road, make for excellent hideouts.





	when thou return'st

The cold autumn storm rages on as they reach the mountain cabin. It's a dingy thing, tucked inbetween two age-old oaks and a tiny forest of fir trees.

The freezing water chills Ysabeau to the bone, it is everywhere and anywhere, her skirts and shirts and shifts clinging sloppily to her back and legs, making walking through the muck and stones harder than it ought to be. They'd left the horses not far off, tied at the entrance of a glenn to some secular tree or another, not that Ysabeau could be bothered to care, what with her hair sloshing down her forehead and into her eyes.

Her husband was not too better off, Philippe's boots churning with puddles with every step, his worn cloak draped over his shoulders, the thick material hitting his calves again and again.

The cabin door finally in sight, the both of them make a run for it, nearly slipping on wet rocks and earth, the wind and rain howling around them.

Ysabeau arrives first, cold hands reaching for the door knob and fumbling blindly, angrily, searching for the ring of keys hidden between the folds of her skirt.

She feels Philippe at her back, huffing impatiently, and she feels her frustration rising, but his hands go on her shoulders, and clench around the material and the skin they catch. Not that his gloved, wet touch should raise goose pimples on her skin, really, but he knows it soothes her, the touch, and her hands stop shaking as she remembers that a tiny cabin without a door does not hold much against a rainstorm, when finally, freezing fingers wrap around the old metal key.

The sound of the lock clicking greets her as the wooden door springs open, croaking almost against the storm as they slam it shut behind them.

They are both panting, somewhat-dry air having being more or less a luxury since night fell a few hours ago.

A moment of silence follows, only the sound of their breathing in a small room, closed off from the rest of the world.

Philippe walks past her, then, his gait purposeful, if tired, and makes his way towards the unlit fireplace. Ysabeau notices the pile of dry wood beside it, and something in her, a part that is not exhausted and weary, and wouldn't kill for a bit of peace, lights up at that, because a day on the run while braving the elements in the late part of autumn is not quite the most pleasant thing she could have spent her time doing, and a fire sounds just about right.

She has no cloak to untangle, a small mercy, and goes straight for the ties of her outer dress, a fool's errand, since the rain made all the knots unmanageable. Her cloak must have gone missing at some point when they were escaping those pesky guards, but she does not mourn the loss. It had been pilfered from an unconscious man and stank like cheap ale, and there's nothing anyone might have learned about her by having it.

She doubted even a witch might make something of hair strands caught in the material, after a night spent in the murky countryside and an ongoing, unrelenting rain. Not that those following them would be able to trace their steps in this weather too far into this forest for shit. So, at least for tonight, Ysabeau reckons, and probably a good part of tomorrow, the both of them ought to be safe from pursuers. And by the time the weather would mend, they'll be too far away from the king's household for it to matter.

Speak of the devil, she turns to look at her husband, his back turned to her. Ysabeau can see the tension lining his shoulder, the rigid slope of his back. He is angry, maybe pointlessly so, given his level of exhaustion, and she can make an educated guess as to why that is.

It's not very often Philippe gets caught red handed when playing his game of chess in the royals' realm . That she would get caught with him is rather unheard of. But stranger thing have happened in this world of theirs, Ysabeau presumes.

  
He had been careful, surely, and still that damned drunkard playing at head of staff in the king's council had caught on their ruse. She had just been the added bonus, taken into custody for questioning alongside another pair of women, both of them ladies in waiting to the queen, demure and innocent. Until proven guilty, that is.

She was not the only spy in the royal chamber, and Ysabeau wishes she could be surprised at the notion. She can't quite claim to be.

After all, that had been her plan's foundation, to slip in around an already existing conspiracy, and make the most of it. That she would get thrown in the same pot because of the incompetence of French spies in Burgundy, well, that was the unexpected part.

Neither can she quite figure how the spymaster knew them to be involved, her and Philippe, specifically. They had been remarkably distant, even the court-norm flirting a lady-in-waiting was permitted toned down to a minimum in his presence.

Might be it had been one of the many drunk fancies that the fool entertained in his routinely stupor, may he choke on the red he savours by the bucket every night.

Alas, it happened, and being bitter about it helped none. They couldn't help but flee in the cold, gray morning, since incriminating proof did exist, and while oafish, the royal torturer was a witch and Ysabeau would not take her chances against him and his lot in their own den, with the odds being what they were. Flight, if unfortunate, had been the only choice.

"..'sabeau?"

She looks up at her husband, who turned her way from his crouch near the fireplace. He's taken his gloves off, and was now warming his hands at the small inkling of a fire he managed to get going, the flames growing a bit with each passing second.

"Hm?" she hums quietly, still trying to untangle the knot that holds her frock together, the wet strings heavy and by now, fucking grating her nerves.

"I called for you twice," he says easily,  
fighting to shrug off his cloak. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"How did they find us out?" she asks softly, if only for the sake of it. He sighs in answer, rising to his feet, finally free of that garment.

"He suspected just about every person at court, from what I could gather. The man happened to be right in our case, and managed to act before we could come clean of it."

Her nose curls a fraction, "He can barely form a sentence without assistance."

"Has the fool's luck of his side, though" a mirthless chuckle escapes his lips, followed immediately by a frown, his attempt at levity failing in a manner which made something in her chest catch.

  
Damn it all if she allows him to wallow in bitterness and blame himself for an ultimately momentary setback.

  
"Has?" she asks, raised eyebrows and a sardonic smile curling her mouth upwards. "Had might be more appropriate, my dear."

She steps closer to the fire, incidentally closer to him, too, finally dropping all pretence of patience and reaching for a pocket knife left on the lid of a fireplace, in order to cut the cursed strings away.

He looks at her inquisitively, features twisted in mild confusion, before he reads the playful glint that must show on her own face, and something lights up in the backs of his eyes, a glint revealing a small dose of mischief. _There_. Philippe toes off his boots, throws them haphazardly in the proximity of the fire to dry.

"He caught me, remember?" At his nod, Ysabeau continues.

"And brought the lot of us for questioning, myself and the rest of the queen's ladies, most of whom just happened to be spies in their own mission." A pause, and she considers the beamed ceiling. "Which reminds me, this approach is becoming old-fashioned. We should find a new one."

A sigh that is almost a chuckle, a touch of teasing in the lilt of his voice. "You invented it, love, back when queens had no ladies. Makes you feel young, does it?"

The look she gives him is fondly unimpressed, but she knows she has him now, hook, line and sinker.

"Never you mind that, darling. I'll see to inventing another.

"But back to our drunk friend in question, he took liberties with us, as ladies accused of treason generally have little objection in store for anything in those moments, you see, which terrified me greatly, small and gentle thing that I am, when my own turn at questioning came"

Big, scared eyes and a pout sweet enough to put a babe to shame.

Philippe snorts at the show she puts on, "I couldn't help but faint and, like a bird, whisper him a pretty song, when that happened. The man was certain both his suspicions and his other aspirations struck true, and well," she looks at her husband, shrugging now, her grin slightly petty, but very satisfied, "he got a little too caught up in the moment, when tossing me around and putting on a show of the all-powerful lord. 'twas a little too close to the torturing hooks for my liking, and to the other shelves the gaolers piled things upon. It's really too bad for him I pegged his trusted, torturing servant for a witch, and took the wild guess that those bottles of his held something a little more...explosive than the average poison?"

"So that is why the tower fell to pieces, " Philippe smiles, a wicked edge tempering the softness of it, plain delight and a little awe writ on his face.

"Could be," she chirps, slouching and exhaling as she finally, finally, takes off her stays. "Twas a fiery pit fit for the most pious imaginings of hell."

"And did this fiery pit you happened to create reach the master's ledgers, too?"

"Of course it did. Or rather, I'd be very surprised if it didn't."

A pleased laugh, a low and quiet, but rich sound coming from his throat as he undresses tiredly, but efficiently, his shirt now thrown over the back of the armchair, shuffled away from the bed, in order to dry.

His smirk softens, then, a knowing look in his eyes as he throws a glimpse her way.

"I didn't quite manage to read through all of them before he came to suspect me. It's good enough that there'll not be much of a use for them now. Neither will that blasted codex of his," Philippe shakes off the wet trousers as well, and his skin gleams warm under the firelight, if only for a moment before he shudders, then wraps a wool blanket around himself.

"I spent two weeks trying to make sense of that gibberish. I hope it burned bright and hot," he smiles, the light reflected in those muted eyes of his.

Less tension in him now than earlier, and his mood greatly improved. Somehow, seeing him content, and bundled up in front of a small fireplace, gives her a greater dose a satisfaction than having the spymaster's tower turning to cinders behind her. Fool heart, she thinks, and feels affection flood her chest.

Now that she thinks of it, it's not often that she sees her husband give any indication of ever feeling the cold, because he is always that much warmer than her, warmer even than a mortal, the lucky sod.

 _Good to have around on cold nights, wrapped around her as he so fancies being_. She'd told him that once, and he'd laughed himself hoarse and called her a practical shrew, claiming to have finally elucidated the reason why she kept him around.

Philippe must have guessed the direction of her thoughts, if nothing else, eyes having been trained on her face without her notice. Before she can open her mouth and ask him, something lights up his face and he rises from his seat, muttering fondly under his breath, and making to search through the cabinets lining the walls of the cottage. For what, she can only guess.

Ysabeau returns to discarding her own layers, a much more complex affair than his. An embroidered shirt and two skirts and lastly, a soaked chemise underneath, all falling around her feet. She looks in a pocket of her fallen frock for some ribbons in order to tie her cold, dripping hair in a knot on top of her head. Droplets of water slither down the back of her neck, and she shudders every time one reaches her spine.

She eyes the cold furs on the bed, which promise at least some warmth for now, and more to come later.

Before she finished toeing off her boots and finally making good on her intention of not getting out of the bed until morning, an arm wraps around her waist, drawing her back into a warming body, a quilt thrown around her.

Philippe sits down in the armchair facing the fire and pulls her in his lap, arms steady around her and smile innocent and sweet like a cherub's at her quiet yelp and the raised eyebrow she offers him.

  
Rolling her eyes at his antics, Ysabeau better wraps herself up in the blanket, and tries to order her limbs in less of a mess. The exhaustion catches up with her, then, lethargy clogging her legs and arms, and the whole of her feels heavy, from cold toes, to fingertips, to eyelids.

A deep breath, and then another, before she feels Philippe fuss, then hears the unmistakable sound of a bottle uncorked so she opens her eyes, barely having noticed that she closed them, just in time to see him spit out a piece of cork and offering her a dark bottle.

"I'm afraid the quality of this is nothing to write home about," he offers conspiratorially, almost apologetically at having woken her up, "but brandy is brandy." He nudges her cold nose with his, a sort of heady light in his eyes sending a shiver run down her spine. And it had little to do with the cold, that. Charmer.

"And it does the job," is what he whispers before pressing a kiss to her forehead, hooded eyes melting into hers afterwards.

  
She can smell it on his breath, a bit, which is nothing short of pleasant, so she wraps her fingers around its neck, sniffing the open bottle, and the alcohol is strong enough to nearly make Ysabeau's eyes water. _Perfect_.

 

The first swig makes her bristle and curl her toes against the skin of his leg, and she scrunches up her nose and closes her eyes, before she takes the second.

A chuckle rumbles deep in his throat, somewhere close to her ear, and what's a girl got to do; Ysabeau brushes her lips to the side of his neck, mouthing the words

"Are we toasting to getting caught red handed?"

He sighs, a warm, smoky thing.

"And to cottages in the middle of nowhere."

"To unending and cold autumn rains, too, I reckon?" she adds, not missing a beat.

  
A glint in those strange eyes of his, "Too bad we don't have glasses to toast with to anything, heart."

There is naught to do about the smile tugging the corners of her mouth upwards at the endearment, but let it be, Ysabeau thinks as she reaches for the bottle once more, entirely too comfortable in her husband's arms.

"We can find a solution to that problem, of all, I think."

She takes one last deep drink, letting the alcohol burn its way down her throat and into her chest, before handing him the bottle.

"We've always been quite excellent at sharing all manners of things, no?"

  
He drinks then, too, more than a single swig, and Ysabeau watches the play of muscles underneath his skin as he swallows, waiting for him to finish before pressing her lips to the spot behind his ear in a warm, open-mouthed kiss.

"Right you are, darling."

He turns at the husk of her voice, lids heavy over his eyes, and Ysabeau shuts her own as she wraps her arms tighter around his shoulders, not mindful of the blanket around them, and she feels his mouth on her cheek, tracing heavy kisses down the side of her face.

Philippe means to go lower than that, still, ducking his head to touch her neck, but she fists a hand in the curls at his nape, bringing his face upwards and slanting her lips to his, grinning into them.

It's bone melting, to be so close to him, it's a kiss that tastes of brandy and heat, but it's the aching familiarity of it that makes something break and mend and swell in her chest at his touch.

She's missed him, close enough to touch in Burgundy, yet forbidden, lest someone might root them out.

 

_To all the circles of hell with that._

  
The grin turns to a wide smile, soft against his lips and he answers lazily, tangling a hand in her hair, curling it between his fingers and urging a moan out of her.

There's no regret or blame in him now, and Ysabeau is oddly proud of herself because of it. Some things just cannot be helped, while some can. Some days are just bad, and cheering each other up on such occasions is what they do best.

The brush of his tongue against hers, long minstrel's fingers tightening around her thigh, which she curls over his hip. Maybe not _best_.

The though makes her giggle. Might be the brandy plays a part in that, too. _Good for the soul. Had a horrible taste, though._

"Of course it did. 'S been rotting here for years, what did you expect?"

She opens her eyes to see the quirk of Philippe's mouth and his wide pupils drinking her in like liquid darkness and gods, the alcohol did go to her head. She must have pondered that last part out loud.

"Nothing less from you and a bit more from the bottle. Speaking of which," she touches her fingers to the glassy surface, bringing it to her face and throwing back another remarkable quantity of whatever that was. "It warms me to the bottom of my heart, would you have guessed?"

"I might have had an inkling. Do leave some over for me, if you will." His features soften at that, except "I'm the one who had his pride wounded today, after all. Don't I deserve some peace for that, at least?"

He is teasing her, the curly haired devil. Two can play that game, even if they're both tired, from the long day, their even longer stay in Burgundy, and the sound of rain against the roof of their little hideout, which is enough to lull her to sleep, combined with the warmth of his kisses.

Even tempered by weariness, the impish light in his eyes could not be less subtle, so she asks,

  
"Oho? Am I not consolation enough?"

"I don't think I'd survive your consolation without some help from my dear friend," he whispers cheekily, giving the bottle a shake before drinking, a feral glint sharpening his gaze.

"I don't think I'll get sleep at all, then, if you get any more help from that friend of yours."

  
"What are you suggesting, love?"

  
"That I'll not hear my own thoughts over your snoring," she retorts innocently.

Philippe breaks out in guttural laughter at the same time as thunder rattles outside.

**Author's Note:**

> Having Philippe mostly naked on the duration of my fics is becoming a trend. Can't say I dislike it. 
> 
> Have some fluff! It's been a while since I've written anythin remotely happy, even if I can't pretend this has the biggest amount of plot ever. Oh well.
> 
> Drop me a line and let me know what you've thought of this little thing!
> 
> Cheers :)


End file.
